


a mild case of possession

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Monster of the Week, Post-Season/Series 03A, Psychological Horror, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, pre-Season 3B
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Deaton says that it is a protection spell, not an exorcism, but as Stiles eyes the bowl of pigs blood on the floor in front him (helpfully donated by the heavily pregnant sow staying overnight in a pen at the back of the clinic), he has serious doubts about his honesty.</em>
</p><p>  <em>“Are you sure we don’t need a priest?”</em></p><p> --</p><p>A little Halloween themed post-3a canon divergence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alocalband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocalband/gifts).



> I may have run away with the Halloween theme. *m* Slowwww burn!
> 
> This was originally a LATE (late) submission to the Teen Wolf Fall Harvest, but I couldn't complete it in time. So this is instead a gift to my original giftee, 'alocalband'. It'll be about four chapters. (and again, I am terribly sorry for how late this is!)

Stiles is alone in the woods, facing the cracked, rotten stump of a tree. It’s cold, much too cold for the thin flannel pants he’s wearing, the pale skin of his upper arms and chest bared to the freezing air as if he wasn’t standing in the middle of the woods, shivering in little more than his pajama pants in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t remember how he got there, but he’s not alone. There’s something in the woods with him, some _one_ , as he can hear the rasp of breath just behind him, the underbrush crackling under a heavy step that’s slowly creeping closer, hidden in the darkness just out of sight.

He is being hunted.

He tries to turn around, but can’t – his eyes are stuck on the scene in front of him, as if he’s watching a movie at a drive-in, but he can’t punch the buckle on his seat.

There’s an ear-splitting crack as the surface of the stump in front of him breaks in two, and his breath catches in his throat.

Two eyes stare at him from the darkness within the stump, wide and bright with dirty white, bloodless sclera.

_“Stiles.”_

_\--_

He wakes with a choked gasp, his heart beating a rapid rhythm in his chest as his eyes skirt the corners of the room, probing the shadows for the dark figure. The sheets are damp around him, soaked through with sweat that has cooled rapidly against his skin and left him shivering,

Fingers of a familiar panic wind tightly around his chest, almost crushing against his lungs as he struggles for breath. It’s a sensation he is intimately familiar with.

_Shit._

He reaches for the water he keeps on his night stand, its contents splashing across the sheets as he brings it closer to his chest with a trembling hand. The chill of the glass is a relief against his burning skin, and it helps him focus on his task as he grabs a handful of half-melted ice, gripping them tightly within his fist.

He focuses on the bite of cold in his fist, letting it ground him until the sense of overriding panic loosens its grasp on his chest, and he takes in a deep breath, feeling his heart rate settle into a more normal rate.

When he can breathe again, Stiles levers himself upright, letting his feet drop off the side of the bed until they brush the worn fibres of the carpet, staring at the pale outline of his foot against the floor.

It has been nearly six years since he last had a panic attack.

The house is quiet, missing the comforting rumble of his father’s snores through the wall, which means he’s probably working another double shift. Stiles doesn’t expect him back until early morning - the whole Sheriff’s department had been through a lot in the last few months, and they’d all had to pitch in extra shifts to help with the reduced size of the force – and now that Stiles’ father _knew_ , knew everything that Stiles had been trying to protect him from for the last year and a half, he’d been extra stubborn.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Stiles knew exactly how the Sheriff was spending the extra hours: pouring over old case files, trying to figure out just how much he’d missed over the years. He couldn’t blame him for it, either, when he’d be doing the exact same thing in his position.

Stiles knows from experience that there was no way he was going to get any more sleep tonight. He feels jittery even as he opens up his laptop and loads his current set of bookmarked research – dreams and their meanings, which had led him to a large number of websites about ‘spirit walks’ and ‘finding your spirit animal after smoking ludicrous amounts of peyote’,

After another half hour or so of failed research – he doesn’t even know how he ended up on the website about somnophilia – Stiles gives up pretending that he can just ignore it, and changes into his running clothes. He doesn’t bother leaving a note for his dad – he’ll be home long before he finishes his shift – just grabs his wallet and keys and heads out the door.

He uses the GPS on his phone to plot a course to the opposite side of town, through the post-industrial warehouse district where Derek had kept a crumbling apartment with a giant hole in the wall, and begins to run.

\--

Stiles loses himself within the silence that blankets everything, absorbing the sounds of the outside world. He likes to run here, to pant and sweat out his anxiety in a maze of empty streets far from anything and anyone he knows, until he’s a breathless, gasping mess from exhaustion instead of pointless, aimless fear.

It also had the added benefit of increasing his fitness, which was a never a bad thing, especially in light of the trouble that had managed to find its way towards Beacon Hills lately. The town’s name was beginning to seem a bit too prophetic for Stiles’ liking, drawing out elements of the supernatural that Stiles had really hoped he could relegate to myth.

He doesn’t stop until he jogs past Derek’s old apartment building. It’s the last stop on his usual route, and he nearly trips over himself when he sees light through the window. He turns around just in time to see a shadow peel away from the front of the building, and although he’s looks a little different - tanned, the scruff around his chin a little longer which just makes his face softer, somehow – the figure that pulls him to a stop is still easily recognizable _._

Holy shit.

_“You.”_

Derek arches a single brow, amusement dancing in the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Me.”

Stiles – must still be dreaming. Derek _fucking_ Hale had left town for South America two months ago, leaving behind an empty apartment and the registration for the Camaro in Isaac’s name. There were no Hales left in Beacon Hills –hell, they’d even torn down the burned-out shell of the house a week ago.

And yet here he is, in the flesh, wearing the same stupid smirk and leather jacket he’d brought with him to Beacon Hills a little over a year ago.

Derek doesn’t seem concerned by the time it’s taking Stiles to come up with a response, his posture relaxed as he slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket - which must have some sentimental value for the amount of time he spends in it. He glances Stiles up and down, his gaze considering as he draws his own conclusions.

Stiles doesn’t want to know what those are, he knows he’s a mess; he can feel the sweat dribbling from his hairline onto his face, and the front of his shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his chest.

“It’s a little late for a run.”

Stiles ignores the non-sequitur, running a hand through his hair, making a face as he remembers too late why he was trying to avoid doing just that. “Does Scott know you’re back?”

“Not yet.” He gives Stiles a look, the ‘I want it to stay that way’ clear if unspoken. Stiles raises his hands in defeat and Derek continues. “I’m keeping an eye on him and Isaac. If they need me, I’ll be here.”

Stiles gets it, even if he doesn’t agree entirely with Derek’s reasoning. After the alpha pack had been brought down a few months ago, they’d all needed time to heal. If Stiles’ healing involved midnight runs, Derek’s involved aggressive self-loathing and isolation. After what had happened to Erica and then Boyd, and so very nearly Cora, Stiles had half-expected him to turn his back on Beacon Hills altogether.

He sure as hell hadn’t expected to run into him _here_ , of all places. Despite the circumstances, however, Derek looks… good. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but better than when he’d left, where it’d looked as if a strong wind could shake him apart. Spending time with Cora had really done him some good.

Stiles glances at the steadily lightening sky, gauging the time he has left before sunrise. If he doesn’t start heading back soon, he’d have to skip showering before getting back into bed, and he hates the feeling of sweat on his skin, clammy and damp against his sheets.

“As much as I’d like to stick around and chat, I really should be getting back.”

Derek nods, stepping back until he’s out of his path. “I’ll accompany you home. These roads can be dangerous at night.”

The offer surprises him, and Stiles finds himself momentarily at a loss for words. He nods, instead, finding no reason to reject the offer, and watches as Derek shrugs out of his jacket and folds it carefully, stashing it behind a convenient bush as he bounces on the pads of his feet, twisting his neck until it cracks with neat click.

At Derek’s signal, Stiles turns back to his set route and pushes himself forward into a jog. The steady beat of Derek’s feet match his pace easily, and they follow the road around the side of the apartment building and into the surrounding neighborhood.

The buildings here are squat and ugly, the overgrown lawns that line the street strewn with discarded bottles and other miscellaneous trash. It’s a horrible place, really; an ambitious development project abandoned in the sixties, to become a haven for junkies and the dregs of society ever since, but it’s quiet at this hour, due to the recent deployment of late night patrols by the Sherriff’s department.

Stiles focuses on his breathing, the cadence of his footfalls as concrete turns to tarmac and he moves past dark warehouses and decrepit buildings. He glances at Derek as they move further into the suburbs, but he shows no sign of slowing as they leave the outskirts of the city, and they make good time through the empty streets of Beacon Hills.

It must be getting on five when they finally reach his neighborhood, the sky lightened to the point that he can clearly see the black and white markings of his dad’s cruiser in the driveway. He stifles a groan. Shit. That will be an awkward conversation, later, then.

He turns back to face Derek, a quip prepped and ready on his lips about not needing an escort to make it across the front porch, but Derek’s already gone, a black silhouette against the pink dawn. He throws out a quiet ‘good night’ anyway, and smiles as Derek raises his hand in acknowledgment before he disappears into the shadows.

\--

After stumbling through the motions of a shower, he’s just about ready to collapse into bed when his phone lights up with a notification. He picks it up, expecting to see a text from his father or Scott, but he’s surprised when he sees it’s a number he doesn’t recognize. He unlocks his phone with one hand as he towels his hair with the other, fully expecting it to be a cold caller and nearly drops the phone in shock when he reads the message.

‘Come by later when you’ve gotten some sleep. -Derek.’

\--

He manages to scrounge a couple hours of fitful sleep before he finally gives up on the idea of getting anything like a substantial rest. It’s been weeks, possibly even months, since he’s been able to sleep through the night, anyway.

He spends maybe five minutes getting ready before he hits the road, splashing water on his face and throwing on a long shirt and jeans against the weather, before he heads out to run the few errands on his to-do list today. It’s late morning by the time he’s finally finished, and he makes a stop at the local bakery for some breakfast and coffee before he heads to Derek’s apartment. He has to take a guess at Derek’s coffee order - he’s never seen any cream or sugar at Derek’s place, so he can only assume he takes it black, like his jacket, and his car (and, most likely, his soul) but he picks up a couple extra packets of sugar, just in case.

After the elevator pulls to a stop and Stiles reaches the landing outside Derek’s apartment, however, Stiles finds himself hesitating. It’s ridiculous, really, as Derek could have easily recognized the sound of his jeep as he pulled into the parking lot, and can probably tell that Stiles is out here, loitering on the stoop. He pulls together his wits, and after another few minutes pause, steps up to the door.

Derek doesn’t mention it, at least, when he opens the door to Stiles’ knock a few minutes later, and Stiles is grateful for that. He waves the bag of baked goods in front of him as a peace offering. “I brought a late breakfast.”

Derek raises an amused brow as he glances between Stiles and the bag, before he nods, stepping back from the doorway so Stiles can make his way into the apartment, although he doesn’t get much further than the threshold.

The space before him is almost unrecognizable.

The layout of the apartment has changed significantly from two months ago, the wall containing the gaping hole torn out to create an open plan kitchen-dining area that Stiles had never expected to see within the space. Two large leather sofas and a book-lined coffee table have been moved in front of the window to make a living area that actually looks quite comfortable, now that there is actually furniture in the room again. The look is rounded off by a soft looking rug that covers the worst of the water damage, the rusted metal workbench that had been serving as a desk replaced by a wooden alternative lined with shelves on either side.

It’s surprisingly domestic for Derek. Stiles wonders if Cora had any hand in the apartment’s renovation, or if this was something Derek had wanted to do from the beginning.

Derek takes the coffee containers and the bag of baked goods from Stiles’ limp arms, setting out the spread of slightly squashed bagels and pastries on the coffee table before he gestures for Stiles to join him. It takes him a moment to respond, still marveling at the changes to the apartment, and he nearly misses the moment that Derek picks up a sweet tart and takes two packets of sugar to sweeten his coffee.

“This is… nice.”

Derek lets out a snort as he bites into the pastry. It should be unflattering, but he manages to pull it off without losing any of his dignity. Now, if Stiles tried that, he’d end up with a face full of crumbs. “It’s better.”

Now, if _that_ wasn’t the understatement of the century. Stiles hides a smirk behind a bite of his own muffin, and muffling a groan as he savors the taste of pumpkin spice. God, he loved this time of year.

“So. Why’d you want me to come by, anyway?”

“I figured it was only a matter of time until you came back, anyway, so I thought I’d at least extend you an invitation.” He eyes him curiously as he leans forward to take another pastry from the bag. “I have to say, I didn’t expect the pastries.”

“I figured I’d need to bribe you to get any answers.”

“That was smart. Do you have many questions?”

“ _So many._ ”

Derek lets out a long, beleaguered sigh, although the effect is somewhat ruined by the brightly colored strawberry tart he’s holding in his other hand. “I’ll do what I can.”

\--

Stiles leads the conversation for nearly an hour with his questions, covering everything from where Derek had gone after he’d left Beacon Hills to the well-being of Cora.

“Are you sure she wouldn’t want me to have her number? As I think she’d want me to have her number. You know, since I saved her life and all.”

“She still has your number, Stiles. If she wants to you to have hers, you’ll know.”

Stiles slumps back onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh, watching out of the corner of his eye with no small amount of glee as Derek scowls at the cascade of crumbs that tumble down his chest and onto the sofa. _So_ _domestic_.

“You are so very cruel.”

They fall into a comfortable sort of silence after that, both content to eat in silence and mull over their own thoughts. He’s surprised when Derek’s the one to break it a little while later, clearing his throat, eyes cast down and away when Stiles glances at him questioningly.

“I wanted to thank you, for not telling Scott.”

Stiles raises a surprised brow, lips quirking into a smile as Derek continues to studiously avoid his gaze. “Really? How did you know I didn’t tell him?”

The look Derek gives him is distinctly unimpressed.

“Because he’d be here now, instead of you.”

Stiles coughs out a laugh at that, sending a spray of crumbs down himself and across the surrounding furniture, and Derek smiles. It’s a small thing, just a tweak of the lips, but it’s there and _real_ , and it’s possibly the only time Stiles has seen it.

“Why were you out there last night?”

It’s not a subtle change of topic, but Stiles is still somewhat shell-shocked by the sight of an actual _smile_ on Derek’s features, and he finds himself uncharacteristically accommodating.

“I’ve taken up running. I’ve been having nightmares recently, and running it out helps. Last night just happened to be particularly bad.”

“You’re having nightmares?”

Stiles inclines his head in a nod. “Yeah. Ever since – yeah. I’m getting really sick of that seeing that god damn tree.”

Derek’s reaction to his statement is definitely not what he expected – he startles, the line of his body stiffening as he straightens, his hands dropping into his lap.

“The Nemeton?” His expression tightens, losing the softness that had developed over the last hour or so of conversation as he waits for Stiles response. Unsure of what exactly has changed in the last few seconds, Stiles give a shaky nod. “How long have you been dreaming about the Nemeton?”

“A month or so? It started out pretty innocuous at first: just sitting by the tree. It’s gotten worse recently.”

Derek regards him quietly, a furrow forming between his brow and Stiles can’t help the apprehension that builds in his chest. He – was really hoping that there was nothing more to this than bad dreams.

“You think there are more to these dreams?”

Derek is slow to respond, and the tension winds tighter in Stiles’ chest. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t rule it out, though. Have you talked to Deaton?”

“I haven’t even mentioned this to Scott. He’s been busy, and the dreams didn’t start getting really bad until about a week ago.”

Derek is silent for a moment too long, and Stiles finds himself reaching out to Derek’s sleeve. “Derek. If you know something more about this, you have to tell me. Please.”

“There may be… I can check some of my family’s books.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

Derek doesn’t respond, just wanders over to the shelves lining the large window in the center of the room and starts sorting through books – and Stiles takes that as an invitation to take his phone and start his own investigation.

He didn’t have any plans for today other than continuing his research anyway, and he might as well do it here. Derek’s wifi is faster, at least. They fall easily back into their old, familiar patterns, and the rest of the day passes in a blur of books and research.

\--

At some point, Stiles must fall asleep, as when he wakes up, the apartment is significantly darker than it had been earlier, and equally as empty.

He’s disoriented, barely aware of the time of day or his location, and it takes him a little while to realise just what is throwing him off – he’s slid down into crack in the middle of the sofa, and he’s covered by the world’s most outrageously soft blanket, and he wants nothing more than to just _sleep_ the rest of the day away.

That is _not_ a good impulse, especially when his dad is probably waiting for him – his _dad. Crap._

There’s a note on the coffee table, right beside his phone. He groans as he leans over to pick them up, using the light of the display to illuminate the note. ‘Be back by seven. ‘

He glances at the screen: six-thirty pm. His dad would have given up waiting for him three hours ago and probably headed to the local diner. He has a few messages, but nothing from Scott or Isaac. He pretty much expected as much, but that does little to mitigate his annoyance at that fact, regardless.

Scott’s life had gotten a lot more complicated after he’d been turned. Stiles would just have to accept his drop in his list of priorities.

He makes himself another cup of tea, and returns to his spot on the sofa, laptop perched on his lap as he watches over three dozen tabs reload in his browser. So far, the results of his research had been a whole lot of _nothing_ : searching ‘dream demons’ on google had just given him a million results of what were basically different varieties of sex demons and although he _had_ gained a unique insight into the online BDSM community, there was nothing of actual use there.

The online copy of the bestiary had yielded similar, if less graphic results, and after another half hour or so of fruitless research, he’s given up and ordered Chinese food, getting double his normal order and then some.

A rattling of keys against china signal Derek’s arrival just as Stiles is distributing the dishes, having poked around in the cupboards until he’d found paper plates and cutlery. Derek pauses as he catches sight of Stiles in the kitchen, his brows climbing as he eyes the truly ridiculous amount of food on the counters.

“I have actual plates, you know.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, working on filling a plate for himself. “Just shut up and eat.”

\--

A little while later finds the both of them packed onto the larger sofa, open cartons of Chinese food littering the coffee table.

“So, my research was a bust. Did you find anything useful in your books?”

Derek frowns and shakes his head, a furrow worrying its way back between his brows as he lowers his plate of food to eye Stiles. “None of my family’s old books have any more details on the Nemeton. I’ve checked before, but I was hoping I’d missed something.”

His expression is tight with frustration, his movements with his chopsticks becoming more aggressive until he drops them back down onto his plate with a sigh. Stiles offers him a small smile, touched by his concern, if not a little weirded out by it.

“Don’t worry about it. It was a long shot, anyway.” He puts down his plate and glances at the time on his phone, grimacing when he realizes it’s approaching nine. It was time for him to go. He glances back over at Derek, who nods and starts clearing the table.

“Thanks for letting me spend the day here.”

Derek lets out a snort from where he’s merging to containers into one, sending him a look over a pile of cold noodles. “Don’t mention it. Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I should be. The dreams don’t come every night,” or else he would have lost his sanity a _long_ time ago. He offers Derek a small grin as he gets to his feet and rolls his body into a stretch, before packing away his laptop and grabbing a carton of takeout. “I should have a few days reprieve.”

Derek’s eyes follow him from the back of the sofa as he makes his way towards the door, stumbling slightly as he gets used to using his legs again. When Stiles glances back at him from the doorway, the furrow is back between his brows, and his lips are twisted into a characteristic frown. “I’ll keep looking in the books. Come back again tomorrow, and we’ll go over what we’ve found.”

“Sure.” Raising a hand in farewell, Stiles makes his way back to his jeep and starts the drive back to civilization.

\--

The dream comes again later that night.


	2. Nemeton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of three.

He’s back in the same stretch of woods with the remains of the Nemeton before him. It’s uglier than usual, its bark mottled with fungi and rot, the earth around the thing dusty and barren, any living thing within a foot of its base dead or dying. There’s something in the middle of the stump, a fleshy mass that looks – dead. He can see it moving, however – see the rise and fall of a shallow chest - wet and glistening and black.

He can’t remember much of the rest of the details, just that the trees around him were silent, heavy with a sort of tension, as if the very night was holding its breath, waiting.

The only warning he has before the attack is a small movement - a convulsion, really - before the thing is flying towards him. It’s hit him before he’s had the chance to move, wrapping tightly around his forearm, and it _burns_.

He screams.

\--

“Stiles?”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and his arm, it – _burns_ – and he cries out, attempting to lash out.

“Christ- Stiles! Wake up!”

There's a large, warm hand against the side of his face, the pressure of a wedding ring against his cheek, and it grounds him, bringing him back to reality. When he opens his eyes, there's only the familiar landscape of his room, and the bowed form of his father before him, one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his cheek.

"Are you back with me?"

He manages a nod - barely more than a wobble, really - but it has the desired effect as the tension leaves his father's expression, and he releases his grip on Stiles' shoulder, the air gusting from his chest in a long sigh. "Thank god."

His hands are shaking as slowly pulls himself upright, trembling around his grip on the bed. His father is hovering a scant few feet before him, his eyes creased in an expression of worry that Stiles is all too familiar with now. It makes his stomach twist that he’s the cause of it, again, and that he’s probably adding more fuel to the guilt he knows the Sheriff feels about the sacrifice Stiles, Scott and Allison made. “Dad. _Dad_. I’m okay, alright? It was just a –dream.”

“A dream, Stiles? You were-” he cuts himself off with an exasperated sigh, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a few moments before he turns his piercing gaze back on Stiles. “Just how long have you been having these dreams?”

Sometimes, Stiles wishes his father wasn’t a detective, so he wouldn’t be forced to try to lie to him. “Not long,” sounds a lot better than the truth: several long, difficult months. Still, he’d rather have the lie than have the Sheriff burdened with even more guilt for a decision _he didn’t make._ “They’re not normally this bad. I’m okay, really.”

A glance at his father tells him he isn’t buying it, not truly. Stiles keeps his gaze averted as he gets to his feet, reaching for a shirt before turning his back on the door. “I’m going out for a run. Clear my head a little.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t respond, going through the motions of collecting his shoes and socks until his father lets out a long breath and leaves the room to wait out in the hall. The Sheriff’s expression is tight with frustration and worry when Stiles brushes past him on the way to the family bathroom, but he doesn’t say anything more as Stiles enters the room and twists the lock, and he’s gone from the hallways when Stiles heads back to his room a few minutes later.

\--

Stiles spends just enough time to change from his pajama pants to tracksuit bottoms before he’s heading out the door, keys gripped tight between his fingers. His arm throbs with the pain of phantom claws digging into his skin, and he just wants to get out, get _away._

It doesn’t take long before he’s on the road, ears filled with the steady rhythm of his feet against the pavement

\--

The air outside is sharper than usual with the first bite of colder temperatures, an abrupt change from the hazy warmth he’d enjoyed over the summer, and it serves as a depressing reminder of just how many nights he’s spent out here, running through the early hours of the morning.

He takes a different path than usual, one that takes him past the McCall family’s house, taking comfort in the comfortable familiarity of their street, and the shapes of the slumbering houses along it. He stops on a lawn at the edge of their neighborhood to catch his breath, far enough away that he won’t set off any of Scott’s ‘alpha’ senses, and so he’s not expecting it when a hand settles heavily on his shoulder.

“Jesus-" He flails away and comes up swinging, hand clenched into a hasty fist that is caught before he can gain any real momentum. ” _Derek?_ ”

Derek lips are pursed, his brows furrowed in his usual frown of disapproval as he carefully lower Stiles’ fist, glancing around him for the threat, the tension in his stance relaxing when he sees he’s alone. The frown doesn’t disappear completely, however, just turns on Stiles as he scans him up and down. “You run every night?”

“Most nights,” he hedges. He wasn’t looking for another run-in with Derek tonight. He’s tired and emotionally wrung out, and he was just looking for a means of escape. Derek - Derek came with questions, _too many_ questions with too little answers, and a bucket load of secrets. Even when Stiles did manage to learn something more about him, it was tragic, more often than not, and he’d regret having pursued the point at all. “It’s turned into something of a habit.”

There’s no point in trying to keep a secret from a werewolf, though. Derek’s eyes are narrow, his nostrils flaring as he takes another deep inhale. “You stink of fear.”

“Well.” He scrunches up his nose, breaking away from Derek’s gaze. “Yeah.”

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Derek takes another step closer, taking in another long, obvious breath – and seriously, you’d think he’d be doing his best _not_ to breathe him in, if the smell offended him so much. It’s not like Stiles could help it, anyway. “What are you even doing here? Have you changed your mind about talking to Scott?”

Derek isn’t paying him attention, his gaze intent as he scans over Stiles’ form once again, leaning in closer as he takes in another breath. “You’re bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” He glances back at Derek with a frown. He doesn’t feel any worse off than he had when he’d rolled out of bed, and he hadn’t had any major collisions along the way. “Are you sure- hey!”

Derek takes his arm, the one that had been grabbed earlier in the dream, and pushes the sleeve up carefully to reveal the area that has been aching since he’d started his run. He’d thought the pain was imagined, but he realizes his mistake as it’s brought into the light – there’s a vivid stripe of blistered, angry skin stretching across his bicep, the skin around it reddened and bruised. It looks almost exactly the same way Scott’s arm did when he’d gotten his first tattoo, except without the regenerative abilities of a werewolf, Stiles’ is left with a much slower and messier healing process in the aftermath.

“Stiles.” Now that the mark is a real, actual _thing_ , Stiles can’t tear his eyes away from it. It takes Derek reaching out to his other arm to get his attention, his grip careful as if he almost expects to find an injury there, too. “How did you get this?”

“I don’t know. It was- it was in the dream.”

“We are going to see Deaton. Now.”

Stiles nods, feeling numb as he stares at the mark on his arm, allowing Derek to guide him gently towards a small silver people carrier – and when exactly had Derek started driving that?- before his awareness snaps back into place, and he pulls them both to a stop.

“Wait, Derek. Are you sure about this?”

He’s not sure about the exact nature of the relationship between Deaton and the Hales, but from the few interactions he’d witnessed between Deaton and Derek, there was no love lost between them.

Derek just nods and places a hand against his back as he rests the other on Stiles’ uninjured shoulder and steers him towards the car.

\--

It’s several hours too early for open hours when they pull outside the clinic in Derek’s new car, but Stiles knows Deaton keeps an apartment only a few blocks away, and he’s feeling steady enough after the drive to lead the way. Deaton’s remarkably composed for three o’clock in the morning when he greets them at the door.

“Derek. I didn’t realise you were back.”

Derek doesn’t respond to the greeting, just grabs Stiles’ arms and thrusts back his sleeve. Stiles hisses out a curse as the welts sting in the open air.

“What happened here?”

“He’s been dreaming about the Nemeton.”

Deaton glances between Stiles and Derek, before leaning forward to study the mark more closely. “I see. I’ll get my coat.”

They head over to the clinic, not speaking until the ring of mountain ash is firmly closed behind them and Stiles is sitting, shivering, on an examination table, stripped of his shirt and bare to the waist.

“Could you please describe your latest dream, Stiles?”

“There’s not much to describe. I’m in the forest, and I see the tree, or what remains of it. There’s a creature in the stump. When it grabbed me, it burned.”

“I see.”

The examination continues for several more minutes, morphing more into the lines of a regular check-up, taking measurements of his respiratory and heart rate. Derek’s presence is so still that Stiles almost forgets he’s here until Deaton asks him to take away Stiles pain while he carries out a more thorough examination of the welts across his arm. Derek’s palm is warm against the sweat-chilled skin at the back of Stiles’ neck, and Derek’s pain drain acts as a soporific, causing him to melt back into his grip.

Finally, Deaton finishes his examination, tossing his gloves into the medical waste box and turning to face them with a sigh.

“You’re the victim of an attempted possession.”

“You just said _possession._ ”

Deaton continues as if Stiles hadn’t spoken; his voice calm and impassive, devoid of any discernible emotion, as if he was talking about news report he’d liked online, or describing the weather that day, not the details of Stiles’ supernatural stalker.

“Normally these fail. Unfortunately, the spirit attempting to possess you is stronger than usual, and due to the nature of the ritual you and your friends took part in earlier this summer, you’re more susceptible than most. We’ll need to take extra precautions.

“It’ll take me some time to gather the necessary ingredients, but I have something that should work.” He nods towards Derek. “You should stay with him; keep a close eye on him while he sleeps.”

Derek nods – and here Stiles lets out a noise of frustration, as seriously when was _he_ going to get a say in any of this? – before he moves on to ask, “what about Scott?”

Stiles stiffens at the question, prompting Derek to settle a hand on his shoulder; a warm, steadying pressure that offers a strange amount of comfort from a person as closed off as Derek. It’s a surprising enough move that Stiles is somewhat distracted when Deaton gives his reply, and he blinks, pulling his focus back to what Deaton is saying.

“...don’t want to bring him into this. The spirit has taken a particular liking to Stiles, but there’s still the chance it could shift its focus. Scott’s a young alpha, and that makes an appealing vessel.

“But not as appealing as pale and skinny, apparently.”

Deaton’s calm façade finally breaks, a flicker of emotion crossing his expression as his gaze flicked back to Stiles, and really, that was worse than the apathy.

“Stiles. We’ll fix this.” Derek’s hand squeezes from its rest on his shoulder, his expression sure and confident when Stiles meets his gaze – and it helps. He takes a deep, steadying breath and scrounges together the vestiges of his courage.

“Alright.”

He calls his dad as they head back to Derek’s car. He's still not sure about what he's going to say about his situation when his father picks up, promptly, at the second ring. After a moment of hesitation, however, Stiles decides to go with the truth. It had taken a long summer for Stiles to earn a level of mutual trust with his father again, and he's not eager to lose his hard-earned trust so soon.

That isn't to say that his father takes it well.

In fact, it takes all of Stiles' guile and charm to convince him that he should stay at Derek's, and not be taken home by a deputy at three o'clock in the morning. Somehow, though, he manages to make all the necessary arrangements before they reached his house, where Sheriff Stilinski is waiting on the porch with a neatly packed bag and a scowl. After a brief exchange - a tight hug for Stiles and a quiet word for Derek - he lets them leave, and they get back on the road just as the night sky starts brightening with the first hints of dawn.

The drive back over to Derek’s place is made in silence. Stiles collapses on the sofa when they reach the apartment, the stresses of the day finally catch up with him. He hasn't even bothered to take off his shoes, a fact that is sure to bother him in the morning, before sleep overtakes him, and he falls into unconsciousness.

\----

The broken, blackened stump of the Nemeton is bleeding.

It fills the little clearing, meeting an invisible wall somewhere just beyond his line of sight, and the crimson tide rises until it reaches his knees, climbing steadily upwards across his chest and towards his throat.

It’s thick, heavier than it should be, dragging on his limbs until he struggles to make the movements necessary to stay afloat, but it’s not enough, and thick liquid makes its way into his mouth, throat, nose, and it’s suffocating, he can’t breathe, he can’t-

\--

“Stiles!”

He wakes up with Derek on top of him, strong forearms braced to pin Stiles’ struggling limbs to the floor. He’s coated in a layer of sweat and gasping for air, as if he’s really just broken through the surface of a lake of blood, and he takes a few minutes to catch his breath, using the steady thump of Derek’s pulse against his ear to balance himself.

“Fuck.” At the sound of his muttered curse, Derek’s grip eases, but he’s still cautious as he starts to move back, his eyes scanning over Stiles’ features, as if he’s checking for something – for what, exactly? Signs of possession? Stiles laughs weakly, wincing at it turns into a cough around the aching muscles of his throat. “I’m okay, sour wolf. You can get off of me now.”

He moves back slowly, cautiously, eyes still searching as Stiles lets himself collapse back onto the hardwood floors – he must have fallen from the couch during his flailing - feeling more exhausted than he did before he’d fallen asleep.

“Well, that wasn’t fun.” He closes his eyes breathing heavily as he waits for his heart rate slow down. After a while, Derek gets up and leaves the room, coming back after a few minutes later with a steaming mug that Stiles takes from him with careful, trembling hands as he shoots Derek’ a questioning glance.

“It’ll help.”

Stiles curls his fingers around the heat of the mug, inhaling the sweet and bitter steam coming from the herbal tea mix Derek must have mixed together from the packets of lose tea leaves Stiles had found in his cabinets. The tea tastes as good as it smells when Stiles tries it a few moments later. More importantly, however, he finds that it _does_ help, soothing the edges of tension that have lingered since the nightmare.

When Derek settles in beside him with a mug of his own, Stiles feels steady enough to offer him a small smile. “Thanks. What’s in this?”

Derek returns his smile with one of his own, little more than a quirk of his lips, but there nonetheless. “A little bit of everything.” He pauses to bring the mug closer to his chest, his eyes closing as he takes a deep breath of the fragrant steam. “I think I got it right. It was a family recipe.”

They fall into a comfortable sort of silence as they work on finishing their drinks, the night outside steadily lightening into the pink of dawn. As the day approaches, so does Stiles’ sense of apprehension, and he digs out his laptop, pulling up the legion of tabs from the night before in an attempt to drown out. Regardless, he still spends the day jittery with nervous anticipation, Derek a constant presence at his side.

When Deaton finally contacts them later that evening, it’s almost a relief to get this over with: for better, or for worse.


	3. just remember: i've got you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The ritual didn’t go as planned. I had to – join, with you.”_
> 
> \--
> 
> where things change, for better or for worse.

Deaton says that it is a protection spell, not an exorcism, but as Stiles eyes the bowl of pigs blood on the floor in front him (helpfully donated by the heavily pregnant sow staying overnight in a pen at the back of the clinic), he has serious doubts about his honesty.

“Are you sure we don’t need a priest?”

The marks on the floor that Deaton had painted with the blood earlier are nearly dry, neatly outlining the area he’s supposed to stay within using a series of strange runes that Stiles has never seen before.

Deaton doesn’t glance up from where he’s working carefully with a pestle and mortar, finishing the last preparations for his ritual. “Technically, Stiles, I _am_ a priest.”

“Great. This is just great.”

“What can I do?” Derek is standing – looming, really – in the corner of the room, tension tightening the length of his jaw. His question, however, is directed at Deaton. The man in question pauses in his work, straightening from his crouched position to give Derek a considering look, blood dripping from his fingers onto the stone floor of the garage. It's a macabre image, and one that is not really doing much to convince Stiles that this is not an exorcism.

“I’ll need your help anchoring him later.”

A strange emotion crosses Derek's features at that, a minor variation to his normal expression that is only significant due to the fact that this is Derek, and Stiles has never seen it before. He doesn't get the chance to ask what exactly Deaton means by that, however, before Derek has approached Stiles’ area, standing close as Deaton encloses him within a new, smaller offshoot off his design, continuing his pattern of symbols and blood.

He finishes the ritual with an anointment procedure, smearing a bloodied thumb across each of their foreheads before he finally lowers the bowl, wiping the excess on a rag he’d brought for this very purpose. He looks satisfied as he glances over his work, before finally returning his gaze to Stiles and Derek.

“We’re ready.”

Stiles was afraid of that. “What does that mean exactly?”

Deaton takes his place within the markings on Stiles’ other side, the blood on his brow glistening darkly as he turns to face him, his aggravatingly calm countenance just serving to fuel Stiles’ growing sense of panic. “Just try to keep calm.”

“Wait-“

Stiles gets a handful of powder to the face for his trouble, and everything goes black.

\--

He’s back in the woods, but he knows he’s no longer dreaming. He’s awake.

He can see the borders of the dream, the barriers that ring the scene, see the artificiality of the darkness, and the emptiness that surround him. That’s what always got him, the way the darkness seemed to eat away the world around him, until it was just him and the… _thing_.

The _thing_ is here as well, of course, but so is Deaton, and Derek.

Derek, who doesn’t look at all that surprised at the change in location, and is, in fact, looking about himself with interest.

It seems as if he knew a little more about the situation than he let on.

Stiles doesn’t have much time to come to terms with that realisation, as the stump of the Nemeton explodes in a deafening crack of sound, sending clods of earth and wooden splinters the size of his fist ricocheting across the clearing.

It’s not real, he knows this, even as he instinctively ducks to cover his face with his hands, the heat from the explosion searing against the skin of his upper arms.

He _knows_ this, but that doesn’t stop him from the pain that follows, from feeling as well as _smelling_ the flames as they eat away at his skin and hair, and he’s screaming again, even as he’s falling--

\--

“Stiles. Stiles!”

He’s burning. He’s burning, and there are arms restraining him, keeping him still against a cool metal surface, letting the flames eat away at him-

“Stiles!” There’s a voice, one that he recognizes, piercing dully through the fog of pain and panic. “It’s not real, you need to-”

He loses track of the words as another searing wave of pain crashes over him – he’s _burning_ \- and he thrashes again, struggling against the arms, fighting to get free, get _away-_

“We’re losing him.”

“ _I’m trying._ ”

He can hear anger in the voice above him and a growl that reverberates through the table and makes his heart stutter in his chest. _Derek._ He’s in Deaton’s veterinary clinic, and they’re doing a ritual – an exorcism – they were -were–

“He’s going into convulsions. We have no choice, Derek. You’re going to have to shift.”

Cold hands press down against his upper chest, restraining him as his head is levered up from the table, sharp points pressing against the back of his neck, and it’s too much.

Pain bursts in brilliant white stars across his eyelids, before he’s slipping back into the darkness.

\--

He’s awake. He’s awake?

 _Yes_. He’s awake. He’s standing in a room. It’s dark, and he’s alone.

_Stiles._

Not alone. Not completely. There’s another presence there, something, some _one_ calling him, and it feels familiar, almost comforting.

“Stiles.”

When he opens his eyes again, the landscape has changed.

He’s faced with a large open area that looks somehow simultaneously both familiar and alien to him, that blurs and shifts when he looks from one side to another. It is a composite, a manifestation of a room, as if made by someone who had heard of the concept of the space, but had never seen one for themselves.

He looks around himself, feeling sick. He can’t – he can’t be _alone_.

“Stiles.”

The voice comes from behind him, and Stiles turns to find Derek crouched a few feet away, features morphed into the aspects of his beta shift. He’s dusted with flecks of what looks like ash and wood chips, and glancing down, Stiles realizes he looks much the same. He catches a whiff of wood smoke, and realises the source: the explosion of the Nemeton.

Derek doesn’t look particularly surprised with the transition, adjusting to the change in their surroundings with barely more than a huff as he pushes himself to his feet and comes to stand by his side, surveying the area around them.

“Where are we?”

Derek glances towards him, his expression unreadable even after he dispels the aspects of the beta shift. “I’m not sure.”

\--

“What happened, exactly?”

“The ritual didn’t go as planned. I had to – join, with you.”

"You- _what?"_ Something in his tone gets Derek’s attention to move to him, _finally_ , and he opens his mouth to speak -- but he stiffens before the words have the opportunity to leave his mouth, his eyes flashing brightly as he turns back to face the room, gaze flickering from one corner to the other.

He raises a hand, gesturing for Stiles to come closer as he edges forward slowly.

“It’s a connection between my mind and yours, albeit temporary. It’s a way for wolves to communicate truths with absolute certainty, to share secrets without the risk of being overheard. I wasn’t sure that it’d work.”

“We’re _connected?”_

“I only attempted it when it became clear it was absolutely necessary. I’m stronger here. I’ll be able to fight it." There’s a noise across the room, a sound like the breaking of glass, except it’s too loud, impossibly so; and Derek breaks away from his survey of the room to face him, his expression steady and confident as he cups Stiles’ face between his hands. "Just remember: I’ve got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (On indefinite hiatus, sorry guys!)


End file.
